


We promised the world we would tame it

by orphan_account



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Camilla is a BAMF?, Destructive Relationships, F/M, Idk can't spoil, Julian!Painter, M/M, Mild S&M, Pederasty, Pre & Post Bacchanalia, Trans!Camilla
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Morrow learnt how to paint in his younger years, striving for his own sense of Beauty. It was his passion, Beauty, along with the Classics. Painting was only a vehicle. Pre&Post Bacchanalia, with some of my headcanons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Πρόλογος

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, please be gentle with me!  
> It's my first work in a long while, and I haven't read the book yet in english so my knowledge of the character's speaking manners is still very green...  
> Also, despite this not being an excuse for anything, english is not my first language. Please tell me if there's any grammar mistakes or if you have any suggestions for improvement! 
> 
> (And yes, I've been obsessed with the concept of pederasty for a long time and I really needed to bring this up with Julian and Henry, so expect me to just go sink deeper and deeper in the complexity of their relationship. It could've been so much more explored -sob-) 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much.

**Πρόλογος**

I

When the man first started, his lines scratched the paper with a rough likeness to that of a _kouroi*_. Months later, men would be pictured with the stillness of the Romanic priests embodied in cathedral’ halls. It was only years after that that his style flourished with the unique mix between a Renaissance delicacy and the blunt Impressionist brush strokes. He could look at his portraits and say, at last: _I am ready._

Julian Morrow had ageless features, in that moment frozen upon the vision of the model before him; his muse. He posed quiet as an aware gazelle in the savanna, his body sat upright on the high bench, hand holding up a strong forged chin. No matter for how long Julian looked, the model wouldn’t move, and wouldn’t breathe, and his body wouldn’t be shaken by a single sudden spasm. The room closed around him as if through all that time the _Lyceum_ had been waiting for the perfect main character to its tragedy. Julian had allowed the ivy to break through the broken windows, along with rain and wind’s bad temper. Now, the greenness of it grew around Henry’s still head like a crown of laurel. It was proper of a mighty hero, a martyr; but never, ever for a human.

“Your beauty is far too dangerous. When beauty is great, Gods frown at it and tragedy falls upon you,” He smiled, despite the ominous tone of his verdict. Henry drew out half a smile, moving only his eyes to peek at the professor. Contrarily to him, Julian was leant over the canvas, only half of his body showing - sleeves pulled up, peeking from underneath a stained, yellowed smock. His eyes were lost in something, maybe in Henry’s beauty or the power his pose whispered out to him, where the other’s were mischievous but nevertheless, cold.

His own eyes guided him to the scars stitching down some muscles in Henry’s body and he knew that, if anything, tragedy had already been kissing his flesh. Uncomfortable for the first time, the boy switched positions, his hand falling from his chin and clutching onto his leg.

“No no, you were doing so well!” Julian stepped down from his bench, shortening the distance between the two and holding Henry’s hand on his. It was warm; or perhaps it was Julian who was warm and all he felt of heat coming from Henry was simply the burning feeling you get when in contact with pure ice. The boy’s eyes mirrored nothing but the admiration Julian so adored to see in him, and the amusement, the knowledge that he had his Aristotle right where he wanted; but that, Julian didn’t see.

He didn’t also see the kiss coming. Henry would move like a snake, his lips bruising like the recoil of a shotgun, and there was nothing Julian could do but to let go of his wrist and attempt to find balance against the three legged table. The jar with jonquils stuttered over the top, stopping only when Henry closed its neck in a tight grip.

They were breathless when someone knocked three times on the door. Julian pressed both his hands against the boy’s face, forcing them to pull apart. A wild expression twisted his usually composed one, his lower lip trembling with a fever; the professor gazed at the fierceness in it before breathing out deeply and walking to the door.

“How may I help you?” He peeked out to the deserted hall, where the only light allowing him a good look at the boy were the few rays that looked over his shoulder. He pulled the door opened a little more.

“I— Well, my name is Richard Papen—“

The boy looked as nervous as he could; nervous features, body structure… nevertheless, Julian liked the way words were shaped on his mouth despite the rigidness caused by anxiety.

“—and I want to take your class in Ancient Greek.”

He could feel his mask of sympathy falling abruptly; of all things he had imagined the boy would want, the one that hadn’t crossed his mind was, in fact, the most likely. Forcing himself not to look over to Henry snickering as he buttoned his shirt, the professor came up with a mournful expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Richard’s heart-shaped lips collapsed in slight disappointment. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better, but I’m afraid there isn’t room. My class is already filled.”

“Surely there must be some way,” His eyes traveled anxiously Julian’s features and he felt nearly tempted to take him in only for the nearly desperate desire he showed. “One extra student—“

Henry moving on his back and tying his shoes remembered him that he couldn’t. He would not take a stranger into his class; never had a constellation aggregated another star. When the pack was made, it was sealed forever.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Papen,” This time he didn’t had to force himself to sound sympathetic, for his apology was as true as it could be in Julian Morrow. He looked away from the boy with a desolated expression. “But I have limited myself to five students and I cannot even think of adding another.”

“Five students is not very many.”

“Really, I’d love to have you, but I mustn’t even consider it—“

The door flew from his grasp when Henry held it open. He stood beside Julian, his tweed jacket hung over one shoulder and his shirt’ sleeves rolled up to his elbows, crumpled in some places on his chest. He threw Richard a quick look of evaluation, before targeting immediately the professor.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, _Magister_. Good afternoon.”

Julian excused himself right after, closing the door on the pouting boy and returning to his empty classroom. The smell of jonquils was intoxicating and the jar with them seemed misplaced, abandoned like that on the table. Along its high, glass neck, Henry’s fingers still seemed to stain it like coal.


	2. First Time Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things got slightly harder in this one. At least to me, Julian is not a very explored character - we know much more about him through other people's eyes and his actions than actual facts. I wanted to play with one of the rumors about his past that was written in the novel, so that's what I did. And ta-daa!

II

 

Julian Morrow was well-aware of all the rumors that cawed on his back like coward crows. It didn’t anger him, simply darkening his spirits with an occasional exasperation. Because, indeed, the first time he had ever touched a pencil for a different artistic use other than scribbling poetry in Latin had been in the Vatican.

He was not, by all means, ashamed of his past – at least, not what concerned his stay in the _Holy City,_ surrounded by the everlasting arms of St.Peter. It was, simply, none of anybody’s business. He did enjoy knowing a little here and there about everyone’s endeavors but, thought that his own should remain a thick veiled mystery. All for the sake of the aura it casted upon him; after all, in the Vatican he learnt many things, and not all of them about religion.

 

Adrian Morrow belonged to the short-list of favorites under the Pope’s wing, a man of both strong faith and innocence. Those were pleasant attributes to the everyday beholder and the public, but not necessarily endowed with a blessing for those who wandered the ivory halls. For the long, slow months he spent in Vatican City under the watch of his uncle, Julian had found den under the best of the best, as a personal favor of the Pope. The _Domus Internationalis Paulus VI_ appeared to him as a far too pompous residence, and where he adored simplicity, was confronted with luxuriousness and endless rules and restrains.

That way, the young Julian would sit on the gardens by morrow, wander the streets incognito under the burning Sun that had once tanned Caesar’s skin, write idly in a cafe. He was foolish then, and full of himself; after all, he had the tender flesh and the ferociously fast muscles of an Achilles. He was in Rome, first a city of Emperors and Empires, and only then of Popes and Christianity. He was seventeen, and fell in love for all the wrong reasons.

He taught Julian how to paint. Better than that, he taught Julian _why_ to paint. Showed him that the beauty he so eagerly searched in the terror of Laocoonte’s features and the way his muscles twisted away from the snakes, could be found in his body lying down under the light of cheap chandeliers, made out of emptied wine bottles. And Julian learned fast how to love the brushes, his fingertips outlining muscles in the dark, the purple bruises on his thighs every now and then. Slowly, he fell more and more apart from the love of the pragmatic preached by the Romans; only to indulge himself in a shower of Greek madness, where the bounds of pleasure and pain were thin and so easily crumpled.

 

The scandal had been overwhelming to the family; Adrian had managed to make it stay “indoors”, without more than a half a dozen of people from the Vatican aware of the sins of the youngest Morrow, and those had been greatly rewarded for their silence. Julian was sent away from the Vatican City immediately, from Italy, stopping only in furthermost landscapes. He studied in Oxford while the dust settled, drowning himself in the Ancient ways of the world, the minds of undying men; all the while he tried to cleanse himself from whatever sin they labeled him with, only sinking deeper in what he desired to escape the most: his truest self.

Beauty was an angry mother, and a rebellious child. The more he drank from the mundane, the more sublime the outlines of the world he cloaked himself around, became. Sometimes, minutes before the closing of museums, he would print over his steps, let his fingers caress now uninhibited the cool muscles of statues, pay them the vigils that the earlier herd did not allow him, or bring back a blush to their lips. But despite giving away his heart to the Greeks, his hand still knew better the rhymes of Latin poetry – he would write frantically at late hours of the night, scribbling in permanent ink.

 

After his years in Oxford, Athens followed – only for two months, a present from his father, who thought him _cured_ and allowed to wander freely again. Then Provence, on his own accords; later Cádiz, and the long way down to the beak of Italy.  

It was not until a decade later that he moved to Hampden, and met a soul that spoke to his with the clarity of spirit he had desired for so long, but didn’t dare to hope for. He had become weary of running, his family’ shadow projecting itself over him like a menacing gargoyle watching from too far above; it only showed him how small he would always be, thrusting in the fear that he would never be someone independent from that dynasty. So he disappeared from their reach as if he tried to hide from the Moirai.

 

Henry was bending over an over-worn looking edition of Horace’ _Odes,_ his whole body seeming to fold around it as he if he held onto a child. In his eyes, Julian could still remember the glimmer of amusement and sheer interest. It was not until later that he realized that it was not a common expression in the boy’s face.

“ _«_ _Quis non te potius, Bacche pater, teque decens Venus?_ __  
Ac ne quis modici transiliat munera Liberi,  
Centaurea monet cum Lapithis rixa super mero  
debellata, monet Sithoniis non leuis Euhius,  
cum fas atque nefas exiguo fine libidinum                
discernunt auidi.»“*

He seemed startled – not by the sudden appearance, since he had long noticed the presence of another around him – but to hear him quote Horace like a Roman. Julian smiled openly and warmly, leaning against the edge of the table and crossing his hands on his lap. He allowed Henry to take his time and make his own assumptions before he lowered his head with a small smile, reserved and cold.

“Professor Julian Morrow?” He questioned, his hand placed possessively over the opened book. The other nodded and Henry’s posture relaxed before he stood up politely. As if Julian had only then deserved the gesture. The boy replied in Latin, reaching out his hand. Julian met it with his two.

“I hope you are to attend my classes, starting this semester?”

“ _Ita vero_ ,” He didn’t motion to take his hand away, but looked down at it curiously, as if it was the first time he had ever shaken hands with someone and didn’t know for how long he was supposed to keep the ritual. Julian only let go of his hand when he spoke.

“I will want to speak with each student that has applied to my classes in private. I will be on the _Liceum_ this afternoon.” He saw confusion in Henry’s eyes and observed it for a bit longer. “What’s your name again?”

“Henry Winter.”

“Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Winter. I would like to have you in my class.” He walked away at last, leaving the boy with his book and making his way back. In his head, he kept replaying the perfect articulation in which the boy expressed himself, in both languages. Sinking his hands in his pockets, Julian hoped for grander things than he had expected from Hampden. Perhaps he had just bumped against the Fate instead of misleading it.

But of one thing he was certain, even then. Henry wouldn’t disappoint him. He had the calculative eyes of a highly trained captain. His body a shield, his tongue a sharpened glaive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: I chose not to use my own translation for this poem because it would probably contain a lot of imperfections. The excerpt belongs to the poem XVIII of the first book of poems by Horace, entitled "Wine", and in these lines you read, according to the translation I chose:   
> "Who doesn’t rather speak of you, Bacchus, and you, lovely Venus?  
> And lest the gifts of Liber pass the bounds of moderation set,  
> we’ve the battle over wine, between the Lapiths and the Centaurs,  
> as a warning to us all, and the frenzied Thracians, whom Bacchus  
> hates, when they split right from wrong, by too fine a line of passion."
> 
> ALSO. Please if there are any suggestions you want to give me, don't refrain them. I don't know if I'm IC, specially with Henry. I hope I can improve as things go.   
> Anyways, this chapter was a liiiiiiittle harder to write -cries- I hope you enjoy it, nevetheless.


	3. Eleuthereus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has a vision.

**Eleuthereus**

III

Henry could feel his body lying on the stony floor of the _Lyceum_. He was covered in blood and dried rose petals, a large wreath of poppies underneath his torso and legs while a crown of thorns haloed his head. Alone. All alone as ivy broke through the windows, spitting wooden chips everywhere. His cheeks covered in powder and mud. His lips were bruised and swollen, broken in a smile that stretched them beyond caution; it foretold his part in the play. The _Moirai_ speckled him with a vision of greatness and death.

That’s when he heard it. Laughter, simultaneously coarse and light – unbearable to the ears, drowning his senses with the animal honesty in it; Henry couldn’t tell, for an instant, if it belonged to a woman or a man. But faith, hidden somewhere inside every human’s denial or pride, assured him of its divinity.

Then they touched him with the thyrsus, turning his face upwards by the cheek, their bare foot close to his lips, daring. Any traces of Camilla’s eyes were gone, only the shape remained – enlarged, darker, and playful where the spark in hers faded. Dionysus’ shape was exquisite, the long locks of blonde hair tainted in scarlet, hiding their breasts as they stood otherwise naked and devoid of prudency. He couldn’t stop looking but the vision drove him to the beak of an abyss; the face kept morphing, shifting from Camilla’s obvious features to a male’s, stronger nose and fuller lips.

#### “The beauty of Death haunts you. So frail, and so greedy,” their voice was a _εὐοῖ_ _-_ a cry of joy, and of surprise. It was a crow cawing, a tiger growling, a serpent’s rings dancing in warning, the morose call of a bull before slaughter. It shouted for life and the perils in it.

####  Henry couldn’t stop looking. His eyes leaked a few tears due to the dryness, but still he wouldn’t blink. He couldn’t blink as Dionysus knelt before him and made him feel not like a god but a toy. A sacrifice he was willing to become. They kissed his bloodied lips with earth painted ones and he could see it. His body running through the woods, blood flooding from every pore, and he was a country, he was a world of red rivers and hills of bruises.

####  He was mortal, and it had never been so satisfying.

#### He drove himself senselessly inside the man, stretched over the stone bench. His body was ripped by nails of endless spasms, as he trembled and threw his head back, crying, shouting, yelling. The undermost part of him knew, congratulated himself to be right once more; Julian was a good conveyance, the hand reach he lacked to be closer from his fate.

#### Despite his eyes having been wide open the whole time, Henry’s sight only came back when he could breathe again without screaming.

#### “Magister,” he called, silenced by one the man’s kisses that nearly jerked him out of his socks. Julian rested his head against the stone, his eyes half opened in weariness; yet, he wanted to look at Henry, in the peak of youth where he slowly rolled down the slope of Beauty. He watched his _eromenos_ and made him feel like a god, not a toy.

####  Henry rested his chin against the professor’s chest, hearing him breathe and watching as the feeling of imprisonment returned.  The cage of bones in which his soul had been stuck in, trembled, had been cracked by the touch of Dionysus. By a kiss he thought more profane than the ones he shared with Julian in a state that, for others, would’ve been of absolute shame.

#### “Do you believe we could recreate a _b_ _acchanalia_ if we so wished?”

####  He felt Julian’s muscles tense beneath his flesh. Then his laughter, clear and human, pulled out of his throat through a bit of strength.

####  “With enough research and effort, coming from someone like you… Yes, I believe it would be possible,” He raised his head, squinting his expression to see whether the question was merely hypothetical or an experience Henry took interest in leading. After a few seconds, he gave up in deciphering the dazed look in his eyes, the wolfish grin that ripped his lips open. “Is this hypothetical?”

####  The man looked up, sitting beside Julian, thigh against thigh, hips brushing. The smile he threw out had hands of shivers running up the professor’s spine. “Of course not, Magister.”

####  “Will you expose this to the others?”

####  Another look that condensed him into a frozen state.

#### “Yes. And Camilla is an absolutely essential pawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'm very sorry it took me AGES to upload another chapter of the fic and that it turned out to be so small. I have no good excuse but the fact that the idea I have stuck in my head was absolutely frozen in this bit and I couldn't find a proper way to narrate it, especially not the imagery. And speaking of gods is never an easy task - least not for a mundane being like myself! And I'm writing this at the same time that I'm editing my novel so I only come update a new chapter when I have time and inspiration to spare.
> 
> Secondly: I don't know what happened to the font in the text, I'm sorry if it appears screwed up but I tried to fix it and was unable to...
> 
> Also, words for those who are not familiarized: 
> 
> "Moirai" - (see "Fates", "Moerae", "Parcae") were the incarnations of Destiny in greek mythology.  
> "εὐοῖ "- is explicit in the text, but it's a cry of joy, used in the context of a Bacchic rite.  
> "Eromenos" (see "Paidika", "Kleinos", "Aites")- a male in his teens that has a romantic/sexual relationship with an older man (his "erastes"),
> 
>  
> 
> Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it!

**Author's Note:**

> *Kouros (plural Kouroi) was the predominant form of sculpture used by the Greeks in the Arcaic period. They were very rigid and "block shaped", in a way, and it was that sense of archaism that I wished to convey.
> 
> \--


End file.
